


No Longer The Same

by LeastExpected_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Interspecies, Points of View
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-04
Updated: 2002-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:33:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26204233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeastExpected_Archivist/pseuds/LeastExpected_Archivist
Summary: By Bron DuWynn.Frodo discovers that he is not the only one who has been transformed by a long sojourn in strange lands.
Relationships: Frodo Baggins & Gandalf | Mithrandir
Kudos: 2
Collections: Least Expected





	No Longer The Same

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Amy Fortuna, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Least Expected](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Least_Expected), which has been offline since 2002. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Least Expected collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/leastexpected/profile).
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. This heart-warming romantic interlude belongs to me. In Tolkien's mind, these two probably didn't have any such attraction. In my mind, they did. Choose whichever version makes you happy.  
>  Feedback: Of course.  
>  Story Notes: This is the third story in a series beginning with "Let This Not Be Farewell" and continuing with "Dark and Empty." Read them in order for best results.

Tears, however the heart may ache, cannot flow forever. The voice, however it may wish to cry out without end, eventually will give way to silence. And so Frodo found himself: sprawled face down in the grass, breathing shakily, watching the grass blades stir with every shuddering exhalation, his body exhausted, immobile. His face was streaked with drying tears; his eyes felt puffy, his nose swollen as if he had a terrible cold. 

And in this state he gradually became aware that someone was with him. 

_Sam...?_ With great effort he started to lift his head. 

"Frodo." 

_Oh._ His head fell with a _thunk_ back to the ground. It was Gandalf. 

"Frodo," repeated the wizard, and Frodo felt hands gently drawing him up from the ground, helping him to sit. The hands pulled Frodo to lean against him, holding him lightly but securely. 

Why did he have to...? 

Of all the confounded... 

"I thought he _loved_ me," blurted Frodo. 

Gandalf sighed, and began stroking Frodo's hair, gently, consolingly. "Sam does love you, Frodo, after his own fashion. But not in the way you wish. He needs an ordinary life, a typical Hobbit's life: a wife, a home, a family, a patch of garden to call his own. I do not think he would have been content to spend the rest of his days as the bachelor servant of the bachelor Master of Bag End." 

"But he wouldn't have been." Frodo sniffled, drew a ragged breath. "I mean, yes, of course we'd have had to present it that way, for appearance's sake, but in the privacy of our home he'd have been...didn't he know he'd become so much more to me than...?" 

"I know, Frodo, I know. But there would have been talk. Gossip. I know you grew accustomed to it, but do you think Sam would have borne it that well?" 

Frodo said nothing, considering. "No," he admitted with a fond little smile, thinking of Sam. "No, you are right, as always, Gandalf. Sam could not live with even the least hint of impropriety in his life. He needs his reputation, his good name in Hobbiton and Bywater." 

"Well, my dearest Hobbit," Frodo could hear in Gandalf's voice that he, too, was smiling, "I am far from always right, but in this matter I think I judge clearly." For a few moments there was only the sound of Gandalf's breathing above Frodo's head. "So, Frodo, what will you do?" 

Frodo felt a chill run through him. He tensed, pulled away from the wizard's arms. "How dare--" 

"Frodo." The name, spoken with such tenderness, such depth of feeling, softened his defenses. "I will not compel thee, nor mean I to take advantage of thee in a moment of weakness and distress. But may I not at least ask? And may I not hope?" 

Warmth spread through his heart... 

No. It could not be. 

"Gandalf, dearest of friends. Can you not hope for greater than this? You are as far above me as the sky from the earth." 

Keen gray eyes bore into Frodo's. "So, too, might Sam have said of you." Frodo stared back, dumbfounded. "But, here. Perhaps I can help you to see for yourself." Gandalf held out his hands in a gesture of invitation, and Frodo, after some deliberation, warily accepted, extending his own small hands to clasp round the larger, aged ones. He took special care to wrap his right fingers so that he could no longer see the damning gap; a slight, wistful smile from the wizard told him that Gandalf had perceived Frodo's thoughts. 

_And still you condemn yourself for that which was beyond your strength?_

Frodo gasped. Startled, he would have lost his grip on Gandalf's hands had not the wizard gently strengthened his hold to prevent Frodo from tumbling back. 

*Do not be afraid, Frodo. It is as I have told you: You have been changed. Relax. Trust me. I will not allow you to come to any harm.* 

Before he could think to stop it, in his mind Frodo shot back, *Just like I trusted you when you said the Quest may be for others?* 

Gandalf visibly winced. *I did not know, then. I feared it may indeed have fallen to you to be the one, but even had I been certain, you were not yet ready to bear the burden of that fate.* 

*Better, then, to give false assurances, to lead me on lest I say 'no' at the outset.* 

*And had you done so,* even in thought it was the weariest of sighs, *then we would not be here, now, having this conversation, or any conversation at all.* 

All was silent, in thought and in sound. Frodo kept his gaze fixed upon Gandalf, who looked back at him soberly and patiently, with just a hint of pleading in his eyes. 

_Will you trust me, Frodo?_

After several moments of hesitation, Frodo relented. *Very well. I will trust you. Show me what you wish.* He settled more comfortably, sitting across from Gandalf, and waited, looking expectantly into the wizard's eyes. Gray eyes. _Mithrandir..._ That was what the Elves called him: Mithrandir, the Gray Pilgrim... 

A road. A meadow. A wakening day. And a figure, a small figure as stature was reckoned among Men: a traveler in gray cloak and hat, carrying a walking stick, wisps of gray beard waving on the breeze of spring. Mithrandir. The Gray Pilgrim. Ever wandering, never at rest, wandering in a world not his own, lone among even his own kind, for he never had the luxury of settling in one place in this world. Mithrandir, intent upon his mission to counter the workings of the Dark Lord in Middle-earth, having no people, no place, to call his home, content to do what he had been sent to do, and yet, unassuaged, lurked an ache deep within...for companionship, friendship... 

The Shire. In those little hills and little vales and little woods the weary pilgrim found a retreat. He grew especially fond of the people who dwelled there, mortals who called themselves "Hobbits," the hole dwellers, like unto Men, but little more than half the size of their larger kindred. 

And the fonder he grew, the greater he feared for the safety of these sheltered and simple folk and their simple, homely ways, and often he cast an anxious eye out into the wider world, watching for the return of the Shadow. 

A Ring. Not any ring; _the_ Ring, the One long lost, found and brought into the heart of that homely haven, the land Gandalf had grown to love as nearest to his own among all the lands of Middle-earth. And the dear people who, unwittingly, became bearers of that Ring: first Bilbo, now Frodo. He feared for him, dear, bright Frodo, the best Hobbit ever to be born in the Shire! If there had been anything, anything at all...any way at all to spare Frodo the burden, any way to spare him the trials and wounds that lay ahead...but there was no other way. Ah! He would have taken it himself, rather than rob Frodo of the quiet life to which he could never return, not truly, not as the innocent he had been...and oh, what a trial it had been when Frodo, quite earnestly, offered the Ring to Gandalf as the better keeper...how close he had come to accepting it, sparing Frodo the terrible fate of its burden...but of course it was out of the question. 

Taking the Ring would not have spared Frodo, but placed him under the tyranny of a new Dark Lord, one who would have twisted good into evil in such a way as to make it appear good, until, too late, its true nature was revealed... 

He hoped that he would be proven wrong, that the burden might indeed fall to another, but it was not to be. And Frodo, seeing, accepted the burden, resigned to his own doom. How he agonized for Frodo through those long weeks, months, of the Quest! The anguish was unbearable, yet he had borne it, as he must. Oh, if there had been a way, if only there had been any other way... 

Victory! The Quest attained. Frodo, laughing, at peace, full of gladness to have cheated doom...but then the shadows began to creep round, again, darken his mind, cloud his hope, cast doubt on the future that should have, _should_ have been his! Oh, Frodo, if only I could... 

Arwen. An idea. A hope. A plan. And if Frodo accepted it... 

Something of the Shire would return with Gandalf to Aman. 

Not only something. Someone. The dearest someone he had known in all the centuries he had visited the Shire. 

And he knew, then, what he desired. 

He could not, could _not_ allow himself to unduly influence...it _had_ to be Frodo's choice, consent freely given...but if only... 

And it would be so much better for Frodo, too. 

*You are changed. I am changed. You bear something of my world within you, and I, too, bear something of yours within me.* 

The ache! The yearning! Would he give all, forfeit all the powers and privileges of a wizard of Aman, to have been a Hobbit, here for a season, then to pass on forever, beyond the circles of the world? 

Yes, oh, yes he would...if he could...if only... 

But he could not. And yet, never again would he be wholly of Aman; to it he must return, yet, as for Frodo, for Mithrandir there was no real return to his home, for he would never again be the same... 

*We are both changed. In this we are the same. Exiles in our own homes, might we not be home to one another?* 

The vision blurred, became the waves of a dark, gray sea... 

Frodo blinked, rapidly, clearing away the sea, to find himself still gazing into deep gray eyes with a hint of water about them. 

And he knew, then, what he would do. 

Sam did not need him. Not any longer. Sam's life had taken a new turn; and so, too, had Frodo's, though not in the direction he had once anticipated. He still loved Sam, always would love Sam, but the searing pain had been washed away, leaving only a lingering memory of sadness, a calm acceptance, and a wish, genuine this time, for Sam's happiness, even if that happiness 

did not center around Frodo. Meanwhile, here was an opportunity, most unexpected, to give love to one whom Frodo had supposed would be beyond such need, and to be loved by him in return with a love not only matching but surpassing his own. And if it proved that the land beyond the sea brought relief to the memories and wounds of Mordor, all the better; but even if not, there would be love, and the gift of a companionship, an alleviation of loneliness, only he could provide. 

After such an exquisite intimacy of spirits, it seemed to Frodo superfluous 

to resort to clumsy physical gestures. And yet at the same time he understood that Gandalf ached for precisely that: the absurd, awkward, homely encounters of skin and flesh by which mortals found comfort and communion one with another. 

And so Frodo carefully released his fingers and lifted his hands to trace tender strokes along Gandalf's bearded, wizened face. "When the leaves turn gold in autumn," he whispered, touching his lips to the wizard's, "and 

the ship is made ready, send for me. I will sail with thee."


End file.
